Kate Jacobs (34 page)

* * *

Two hours later, Georgia was still in a T-shirt
and sweatpants when Anita came to the door, armed with phone numbers and lists
and books, everything from upbeat little life-affirmation-quote books to
serious medical tomes.
"We can't leave those around for Dakota to see."
"Why not?"
"I'm not going to tell her."
Anita screwed up her lips in a pucker, then released them and made a big,
popping sound. "I see," she said, with a wave of her hand as if
dismissing the comment. "Well, I'll just make a list about that, too. How
to talk to people about this.
If
there's anything you need to tell her.
First we need to get you a second opinion." She consulted her pad of
paper.
"Dr. Spelling already called this morning with the names of two
specialists.
Onco
-gynecologists," said Georgia.
"See? There you go," Anita replied. "Let's see if we can find
out what's really going on inside your body, and then come up with a plan to
fix it. Have you told James?"
"No."
"Cat?"
"No."
"I see. So you're pretty much going to suffer in silence and let everyone
else carry on in their blissful way?"
"Yup."
"Of course you are—what was I thinking? Well, let me tell you something:
this is out of your control." Anita was exasperated, frightened, upset.
"If it's confirmed, you're going to have to tell James and Dakota.
There'll be no way around it."
She made another call but was told the doctor was booked up for at least three
weeks; Anita tried another name from her list but got a similar reply: ten days
unless there is a cancellation.
"But this is important," she said.
"It's important for everybody," came the reply.
Georgia began to pace as Anita kept dialing. It was one thing to lean on the
woman who had, essentially, saved her more times than she could count. It was
easy just to lean in for a quick hug or a pep talk. But how could she ever let
James or Dakota see her as anything but strong and in charge? Wasn't that part
of why people liked her? That she was so capable, so confident, so certain?
Some people are the partiers, the fun-time
Charlies
—like
K.C.—and others are glamour-pusses, like Cat. But Georgia? She was the
tortoise: Slow and steady wins the race.
When you've been rock-solid, it just seems unfair somehow to fall apart.
Doesn't it?
"Georgia? Earth to Georgia?" Anita was waving across the room.
"We need to get you in to see a specialist. And we need the best doctors
in the city. So, whether you like it or not, I'm going to bring Cat in on
this."
"Why?"
"Because she's got as many connections—more—than I have and she's way more
tapped in to the health field," said Anita. "I'm sure her Botox man
knows some great doctors. Who can pull strings. Besides, Cat is downstairs
already, unpacking a new espresso machine."
Of course she was. Cat was still coming into the shop every morning, and
frankly, Georgia had found herself comfortably falling into a rhythm of
enjoying a good hot cup of
joe
with her friend. It
was, in a way, just like school, when you'd talked to a friend the night before
but you couldn't wait to see them at the first bell to re-hash everything you'd
already discussed hours earlier.
"Okay," she said. "Get her up here and see if she's got anything
to add."
In a flash, Anita was downstairs, trying to act casual but effectively rushing
into the store with great commotion and scurrying into the office, where Cat
sat amid Styrofoam packaging, pieces of the contraption in either hand.
Peri
poked her head in, curious, but Anita made up a story
about how they were redecorating Georgia's apartment and needed Cat's advice.
Redecorating? Georgia? If
Peri
had stopped to think
about it, she wouldn't have believed for even a nanosecond that Georgia would
essentially skip work to toss around a few throw pillows and slap on a can of
paint. But there was already a line of customers at the register—there was
always a
minirush
on Tuesday mornings, of the
die-hard knitters who'd run out of this or that when the shop was closed on
Sunday or Monday—and so
Peri
went back to work
immediately.
Cat, on the other hand, was positively over the moon to be brought into a decor
consultation for Georgia. It made perfect sense to her that her friend would
stay home to spiff up her apartment. But one step inside, with Georgia still in
pajamas, and books and papers lying all around, and Cat was wise to something
else going on.
Filling her in on the details, Anita asked her straight out: Whom did she know
and what could they do?

* * *

Staring at the Hudson and New Jersey beyond,
Cat passed cruise ships and tug boats as her cab sped down the West Side
Highway. It had been a long time since she'd been down in the financial
district; she had rarely bothered to see Adam during the workday. Or, more
precisely, he had never asked her to make the trip. Now she was meeting him at
his office—she told him she wanted to discuss the settlement; he refused; she
insisted it would be worth his while; he was intrigued. You can have ten minutes,
he told her. Hope it's enough.
If there had been more time, she would have gone back to the hotel and put on
something fabulous, would have spent an hour on makeup. Instead, she pulled a
tube of lipstick and another of mascara out of her purse, and decided her white
cap-sleeve tee, khaki skirt, and
nubuck
mules would
have to do. I'm not out to impress, she told herself, I'm here to make a deal.
Adam's office was oversized, with a wall of windows and a view of the Statue of
Liberty and Ellis Island beyond. The orange-colored ferries between Staten
Island and Manhattan chugged along in the waters below. Cat watched them motor
ahead, standing at the window, waiting for her husband—her soon-to-be
exhusband
—to return from a meeting. There was a brief moment
when she thought, deliciously, of jumping onto his computer and finding secret
information about his finances (an idea rejected because it likely was not
there, instead kept with his personal accountant) or sabotaging his work
(rejected again because she doubted she could access any documents). Then, with
a squeeze of anxiety, Cat realized she had never known Adam's computer
passwords at all.
What sort of marriage was that?
"Hey, Cat, what a delightful surprise." Adam's voice was gracious.
Cat turned around, excited and pleased. Her heart sank. Behind Adam stood his
mentor, an older gentleman long retired from the firm.
"Adam," she said coolly. "Hello, Stephen." She offered her
cheek as the older man came forward and said his hellos, then went on his way.
Adam closed the door.
"So now then," he said, "it's just us. Is this room okay or
would you like something a little more private."
"Private?"
"Well, I hear so much about exes falling in bed together, I figured you
needed a little…tending to."
"You thought I came down here to sleep with you?"
"Sleep? Not so much. Sex? Maybe."
"You're loathsome."
Adam laughed and took a seat behind his desk, leaving Cat still standing.
"All right, now that the niceties are out of the way, what do you really
want?"
"I need a favor."
He leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin theatrically.
"Favor? I don't know that I do favors."
"I need you to call Chip and get an immediate appointment with the top
onco
-gynecologist in the city."
"Are you sick?"
"Hoping to delay the divorce until I keel over?" Cat spat out.
"It's a genuine question."
"No, I'm not sick," she replied. "It's Georgia."
"I see." Adam watched his wife silently. It was an old habit of his;
she always broke down and spoke first.
"I'll accept the settlement 'as is' if you call Chip." She sat down
in a club chair in front of his desk.
"You could call him yourself."
"I really doubt he'd take my call now that we're getting divorced,
Adam."
"True." Adam smiled. "True enough. That little stunt at the
museum kind of sealed your fate. No one trusts a girl who airs her dirty
laundry in public."
"You call him, I'll accept the settlement."
"Cat, Cat, Cat." Adam got up and rested part of his weight on the
front of his desk, leaning his body into his soon-to-be ex-wife's personal
space. "You'll take the settlement as it is anyway. I know it. You know
it. So why should I call Chip?"
"Because we'll cross out the bit about you buying an apartment." Cat
felt desperate: She thought of Georgia's pretense of being calm, the fear that
was so obvious in her face; she thought of Anita's look of relief and
confidence when she'd said she could find her friend a doctor this week.
"Repeat that?"
"I'll take the money you offered, but you won't have to buy me an apartment,"
she spat out. "I'll sign the divorce papers without a fight. But only—and
I mean, only—if you get Georgia in to see the top guy this week."
"Why, Cat," whispered Adam, bringing his face close to hers. "I
never knew how exciting it would be to negotiate with you. We should have done
it more often. Want to find that private room now?"
As if by instinct, she brought up her hands and pushed him away.
"Get away from me," she hissed. "You just make those calls and
get back to me with an appointment time ASAP." Heading for the door, she
turned around, willing her brain to come up with something harsh and brilliant
that would make him see she wasn't his victim. That she was willing to pay any
price to save Georgia. To repay her. Not out of guilt. But for her faith in Cat
all along. She opened her mouth, but Adam interrupted. His eyes were downcast;
he looked sad.
"I would have done this for you anyway, Cat," he said softly.
"Even without you giving up the apartment."
Her stomach lurched. Was he here now? Her true Adam?
"You would?"
The man at the desk began to chuckle, then brought his hands together as if to
clap.
"No!" he said, looking at her with a mix of pity and leering.
"Jesus, Cat, you never wise up, do
ya
?"
Yanking open the office door, she bolted into the hallway and counted the steps
to the elevator.
It's worth it, kid, she told herself. Anything is worth it to save Georgia.

* * *

The rest of the week had dragged along, a
waiting game, until the appointment on Friday afternoon that Cat had managed to
secure. You had to hand it to her, thought Georgia as she pretended to work in
her office on Thursday morning, her old-new best friend had really come through
for her. She must really be connected, to be able to just pick up a phone and
make it happen. It must be lucky to have power like that. It must make you feel
good.
All through the week, Georgia had consistently put off the one thing that made
her feel good: James. She avoided his calls, canceled the fajita dinner by
claiming she had to go over the books with Anita in the evenings, just as they
always did around the beginning of a month. Of course, they'd checked them over
the week before. Business wasn't quite as booming as in the earlier part of the
year, but then that was typical. People tend not to think about wool when the
weather is warm.
This morning James phoned to say that he wanted to take them all back to
Baltimore on the weekend, go to the aquarium with Dakota and his parents;
Georgia agreed readily, though she suggested that father and daughter do the
weekend trip alone. That, more than anything else, made James suspect something
was going on.
"What? You always want to be in on the action when it comes to Dakota—and
you've only met my parents once."
"They certainly seemed nice."
"Okay, let me rephrase. We nearly came to blows over going to Baltimore
the first time, then we went as a group and I practically got my head chopped
off by my mom while you suffered the third degree. Now I say we should go
back…and you're just completely fine with it?"
"Yup."
"Just go have a nice time?"
"Yup."
"What's with all this 'yup' business? It's like you never want to talk to
me anymore."
"What do you mean? I spent all of last weekend yakking your head
off."
"But since then you've been one-word answers all week. Even Dakota said
you were grumpy."
"She did? When did you talk to her?"
"When I came by the shop last night and she was manning the register.
Peri
was throwing K.C. test questions because she's
cramming for the big test on Friday."
"Oh."
"They told me you'd gone to dinner with Anita—but I had just seen Anita
talking to Marty in the deli downstairs."
"Oh." In fact, Georgia had made excuses to
Peri
,
had gone up to sit in the bathtub and cry. She'd stayed until the water turned
cold, the only place that felt safe enough—private enough—to let out her
emotions without fear of being seen.
"What's going on, Walker? Is it me?" James was hurt.
"No, it's just, I…can't tell you."
"Georgia, if I'm doing something wrong again, just tell me. I'm smarter
this time around. I'm sorry I've been pushing the moving-in thing."
"No, James, it's not that. Trust me. I just need some space right now. And
it would be great if you'd take Dakota for the weekend—she'd love to meet all
those cousins."
"Okay, but can I see you on Friday night, then? It's been days."
"Oh, uh, I've got club on Friday. In fact, why don't you guys go up early
that day? Could you get out of work and take her around noon?"
"Sure, but I really want to see you."
"Then I'll see you when you come to pick her up." And Georgia hung up
before he could say another word. Call back, call back, she thought to herself.
Demand that I tell you everything that's going on. Force it out of me.
But of course he wouldn't. No, James would be respectful of her request. And as
smart as he may be, he wasn't a mind-reader.
So she had done what any stressed-out working mom facing a health crisis would
do: she went to work. Came up with plans to reorganize the store, ordered in
some more cotton skeins—it was really selling quickly as folks dreamed of
finishing summery sweaters before Labor Day—and spent far too long reading
medical stories on her computer. Dodging Anita at every turn, who was bringing
her orange juice and fruit salad and kept suggesting she take a rest.
What she needed was a break—a real break—something to focus on that had nothing
to do with what might or might not be lurking inside her body. And the
unexpected arrival of Lucie toward the end of the day on Thursday—moving far
slower these days now that she was lugging a twenty-five-week-old in
utero
—was just the ticket. She still didn't look her age,
thought Georgia. The red bandana around her ever-growing sandy hair could
stay—no doubt
Lucie's
response to the sweltering
August heat and the fact that she couldn't dye her hair while pregnant—but that
darn messenger bag simply had to go. Sure, it weighed less when the strap was
across the body, but the way it fell on her front made
Lucie's
swollen breasts look positively massive. It was almost impossible not to stare!
"Georgia," panted Lucie, holding herself up in the doorway to the
back office. "I so absolutely have to talk to you. I need advice on having
a baby solo." As she closed the door and wriggled her way out of the
messenger bag, flopping onto the loveseat and looking plaintively at her
comrade-in-arms, the only other single mother she knew, Georgia felt a
surprising sense of elation.
See? she comforted herself. Things aren't that different after all.
I'm still the go-to girl in a crisis.
I'm still the one voted Most Likely to Succeed at Harrisburg High.
I'm still me.